Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Emma heard the slurpy sound of Wilson’s straw sucking up the last of his chocolate shake. He picked up the bill when it came, taking a rain check for a home-cooked dinner when Emma was ready to test out her new kitchen. Rain check seemed like such a silly word to define her new social life.

  When Emma finally lay in her familiar bed in the strange new bedroom, she closed her eyes and roamed from room to room, through the blur of the last few days. Sleep finally came as a dream in which Emma was falling, falling. Below her she saw only darkness, felt the continuous flight downward. Only when Emma surrendered to the void did she feel her descent slowed down, feel a pair of strong hands break her fall. But close as they held her, Emma couldn’t see in the dark whose face it was.

  Jack came to her in a whirlwind at the end of the following week. She was sitting at her metal-gray desk next to Wilson’s office and jumped when the front door banged open with a gust of cold wind. Those kids again, was her first thought. Emma sprawled forward on her desk, trying to hold down stray papers. Her bag lunch hit the floor and a jar of pencils scattered after it. When she looked up, Jack was standing in the doorway. He looked handsome and official in his army uniform, even with the large rubber plant he carried in one arm. He set it on the floor beside her desk.

  “I’m sorry. The wind’s a wild thing today.” He turned to close the door and she stood up, hastily adjusting her cardigan. “How are you? Getting settled into your new apartment?” He set her lunch sack on the desk.

  Emma gathered a bunch of pencils, cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, staring at his pressed dark green jacket, beige shirt, and slacks.

  “I thought I’d bring you a small housewarming gift.”

  “Thank you.” Emma touched the rubber plant, stroked a thick, green leaf. “It’s beautiful.”

  He glanced at all the team photos lining the wall behind her. “Looks like Wilson’s doing a great job.”

  “He is. Do you want to see him?”

  Jack pinched the creases in his hat and frowned at it. “Well, actually I dropped by to talk to you.”

  Emma grew warm, certain her face had turned scarlet. “You did?”

  He licked his lips. “I was wondering, if you weren’t busy Saturday night…if you might like to go to dinner?” He crossed his arms below a single row of red and yellow ribbon.

  Emma snapped a rubber band around the bunch of pencils, turned them around and around in her hands. “This Saturday?”

  “I could pick you up at seven,” Jack added with a smile.

  “I…Yes.” Emma pulled a pencil out and wrote down her phone number. “Here.” She handed him the paper. “Just in case you need to get hold of me.”

  “Thanks.” Jack slipped the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. “Saturday at seven.” He smiled wide and backed up, then raised his hand in a cockeyed salute.

  When he opened the door, the wind played around Emma again, rustling the papers that lifted from her desk like happiness and floated gently to the floor.

  When Emma left work on Friday afternoon, she didn’t mention her dinner plans with Jack to Wilson.

  “See you Monday,” he said as she was leaving. “Got any hot plans, or are you just going to stay around the apartment?”

  Emma grabbed her coat. “I’ll probably do some unpacking,” she answered, her voice catching. She opened the drawer to retrieve her purse.

  “Yeah, sounds good.” His fingers played with the whistle around his neck. “Have a good one then.”

  “You too.”

  Wilson nodded.

  All the way home on the bus, Emma couldn’t read a word of her book, Peyton Place, without wondering why she just didn’t come out and tell Wilson about her dinner date with Jack.

  On Saturday, Jack arrived promptly at seven, wearing a dark jacket and tie instead of his uniform. “Only when necessary,” he said, registering her quick stare. “I prefer to look like everyone else.”

  “Would you like something to drink? Coke? Coffee or tea?” Emma asked, surprised he knew what she was thinking.

  He glanced at his watch. “We have seven-thirty reservations. Better get going.” He held the door open for her. “By the way, you look great.”

  Emma blushed, muttered a quick “Thank you.”

  She’d spent all afternoon deciding what to wear, finally settling on a blue silk cheungsam. She hadn’t worn one since she’d double-dated with Sylvia Lu in college. When Emma first stepped into the cool silk and snapped each frog, she felt strange and foreign in it. Glancing into the mirror, she no longer looked like the Hong Kong girl who first came to San Francisco. Still, she certainly wasn’t the American one who danced to Elvis Presley and swooned every time he shook his hips. Emma hovered just beyond the both of them.

  Dinner was at the New Pisa restaurant on upper Grant Avenue in North Beach. Emma sat across from Jack, the candle between them flickering a soft yellow light as she sipped the too tart glass of wine, which went straight to her head. She found herself telling him all about her family. Ba ba in Tokyo, Mah-mee in Hong Kong, Auntie Go and the Western Wind, her sister, Joan, the actress, and of course Foon and her wonderful cooking.

  “They sound wonderful,” he said, cutting into his cannelloni. “I’m afraid my life hasn’t been nearly as exciting. I grew up with my mother and brother. My father took off by the time I was five. My brother, Frank, was almost ten. We lived in an apartment just outside of Chinatown.”

  “Your mother is Portuguese?” Emma asked, spearing a ravioli, the sauce potent and garlicky.

  Jack nodded. “Her family’s from Macao originally. She met my father over here.”

  “We lived in Macao during the occupation. It really was a safe haven.”

  “My mother left there when she was just a little girl.” He took a sip of his wine. “Tell me what you liked best about being there.”

  Emma swallowed some water. So many things came to mind—Lia, music, St. Paul’s, the lazy tropical days, the language…. “The people. And their kindness.”

  At the door Jack held her hand in his for the longest time. They hardly spoke, but she felt cold when he released her hand and broke the connection.

  Later that night, Emma rummaged breathlessly through her box of letters, looking for the one she’d received from Joan several months ago. When she found the thin white envelope, the faint smell of My Sin still remained. Emma skimmed the short letter to the last lines. I’ve met someone. He isn’t at all the type you’d expect me to have fallen for. Much more serious and intellectual. Mah-mee and Auntie Go don’t know a thing. I can only tell you that he’s in the business and that I’m in love.

  Emma slipped the letter back into the box, her rapid thoughts already making plans—tell Wilson on Monday about Jack, unpack the rest of the boxes, wait for Jack’s call, write another letter to Joan saying, I know exactly how you feel.

  Chapter 14

  A Woman’s Story—1959–61

  Joan

  Joan waited in C. K. Chin’s office. The morning sunlight bleached the room in a harsh light. She sat in one of the new black leather chairs in front of his desk. Not even the rich smell of leather could overcome the years of stale cigarette smoke embedded in the rug and walls. Joan glanced down at her watch. Chin was late.

  After Joan’s success in A Woman’s Story came two more films, Day After Day and The Final Hour. Posters of all three movies hung on the dark wall in Chin’s office, a space he reserved for his most successful films. She could scarcely believe it was her own face staring back at her. From where she sat, Joan saw traces of Mah-mee watching over her. She looked at her watch again and was just about to get up and leave when the door banged open and Chin hurried into his office.

  “Joan, Joan…I’m sorry to be so late.” Chin leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Problems on the Typhoon set.” He sighed, his breath stale with smoke.

  “You needed to see me?”

  Chin hesitated, sat down in the chair next to hers a
nd crossed his legs. Away from his desk, he looked awkward and out of place. “I need to ask you a little favor.” Chin smiled, his eyes narrowing. “I have the perfect movie for you, only…only it can’t wait until you return from your trip.”

  Joan stood up. “No. My sister’s expecting me in San Francisco in two weeks, and that’s final.”

  Chin reached out, touched her arm, his hand moist and sweaty. “Postpone it. It will be worth your while. Joan, do this for me, and it’ll make you a bigger star than you already are.”

  “Another singsong girl?”

  “Not exactly.” Chin laughed. “Though the character is a woman who struggles to be understood by society. But believe me, it’s an entirely fresh approach to the theme. Just take a look at the script.”

  “No,” she repeated, grabbing her purse. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”

  “I’m not asking you to make up your mind now. Take a day or two. I’ll have a script sent to you. Just remember, an actress’s fame can be fleeting. It’s always wise to strike the iron when it’s hot.” Chin rose, flipped open his gold cigarette case, and reached for the gold lighter on his desk. He flicked it twice before the flame flared up and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips.

  Joan hadn’t expected her meeting with Chin to take so long. She dashed through Kai Tak Airport, late and out of breath by the time she reached Gate 2A, where a small crowd waited. Ba ba’s plane had just landed. Joan leaned against the wall beside the window, her sundress sticking to her back, her dark glasses sliding down her nose.

  Outside, waves of heat rose from the black surface where the Pan Am plane had rolled to a stop. Just then, she saw the door slide open, and one by one the passengers walked carefully down the silver steps and across the tarmac to the terminal. Joan dabbed at her forehead with a tissue, afraid to blink and miss Ba ba. She hadn’t seen her father since he’d returned from Japan for the premiere of her first starring movie, A Woman’s Story.

  “Make sure you get there on time,” Mah-mee had told her the night before. “Are you certain I shouldn’t take a taxi and meet you there?”

  “I have a meeting with Chin at the Tiger Claw. I’ll pick Ba ba up afterward and bring him right home,” Joan said, her voice calm and gentle. She was looking forward to spending some time alone with him.

  “Just be there on time,” Mah-mee insisted, pacing back and forth between the sofa and the terrace doors. “You know Ba ba hasn’t been well.”

  Joan looked twice before she recognized his gaunt, pale figure walking down the stairs from the plane. Her heart ached to see how much he had aged in the last two years. She took off her sunglasses, brushed her hair back. “Ba ba!” she called as soon as he stepped into the building. When he looked up, she saw a hint of the handsome man he had been.

  “How is my movie-star daughter?” he asked, dropping his briefcase and hugging her tight.

  “She’s awfully glad to see you.” Joan felt only skin and bones through his jacket. “Let me take that.” She grabbed his briefcase, then took his arm and led him to the baggage claim.

  As their taxi wound through Kowloon and back to Hong Kong, Ba ba stared out the window for the longest time. After a while, he sat back and murmured, “So many people.” Then, as if remembering Joan was next to him, he turned and asked, “Isn’t your studio somewhere around here?”

  Joan nodded. “A couple of blocks that way.” She pointed past him out the window. “Now that you’re home again, I’ll take you on a tour.”

  Ba ba smiled, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “You know, at first I wasn’t terribly happy when you wanted to become an actress. I was afraid that you might be disappointed by such a difficult business.”

  “But…”

  Ba ba put his thin, veined hand on hers. “But, I’ve always remembered how well you did collecting my receipts before the war. I knew you could do whatever you set your mind to. Both of you girls. It is a hard enough world without having your family against you.”

  “What if I had failed?” Joan said softly, more to herself than aloud.

  Ba ba heard. “But you didn’t.”

  Joan swallowed, a lump in her throat. The hot, humid air was suffocating. She closed her eyes behind her dark glasses. As they glided through the narrow, crowded streets of Kowloon, Joan took her father’s hand in hers and held it tight.

  Six months after Ba ba returned to Hong Kong, Joan moved into her own apartment on Magazine Gap Road. It had a large living room, two bedrooms, and a narrow kitchen she rarely had time to cook in. Usually, she ate out or, at least three times a week, had dinner with her parents and Auntie Go. Every time she ran up the stone steps at her parents’, she could smell Foon’s cooking and almost guess which dishes she had made for dinner. Tonight, they were having beef with garlic and ginger. When she opened the front door, Joan heard low voices coming from the living room.

  Mah-mee stood by the piano. It hadn’t been played since Emma left for America. Mah-mee’s eyes were swollen, as if she’d been crying. Auntie Go sat quietly on the sofa.

  “What’s the matter?” Joan asked, her mouth dry. “Where’s Baba?”

  Auntie Go answered, “He’s in the room resting. We received a telegram from Emma today.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Mah-mee’s voice, tight as wire, rang through the room. “Your sister was married three days ago.” A small vein on the side of her forehead throbbed.

  “To Jack?” Joan asked, caught off guard.

  Mah-mee’s eyes darted back to her. “You know?” she asked accusingly.

  “Then she’s known him for a while?” Auntie Go asked, a sliver of relief in her voice.

  Joan put down her jacket and purse. “Emma’s been seeing him for the past year.”

  “And you’ve kept this Jack person a secret?” Mah-mee continued, her eyebrows rising.

  “I promised—”

  “You might have prevented this marriage!” Mah-mee accused.

  “Kum Ling, listen to yourself,” Auntie Go interrupted. “Joan was just doing what moi-moi asked her.”

  Mah-mee pressed her lips tightly together, crumpled the telegram in her hand. “After she graduated, I should have insisted she return with you, Go. All this art nonsense. And then wasting time working in San Francisco. I could have found her a good match here! Now she’s married to a person we know nothing about. Who’s his family? What does he do?”

  Joan watched the tiny wrinkles that spread from the corners of her mother’s mouth. “Emma loves him. Isn’t that enough?” Joan’s words slipped out before she had time to think.

  Mah-mee glared at her. “No, sometimes love is not enough. She should have never gone to America in the first place!”

  “The best thing that could have happened to Emma was going to America! Why can’t you just be happy for her? For anyone?” Joan said, her anger rising.

  “Just because you’re a big movie star doesn’t mean you know everything about life!” Mah-mee drew in a breath, then spit out, “Or love!”

  “I know more than you’ll ever realize!”

  Mah-mee’s eyes narrowed. She turned away from Joan and said in a dead tone, “If that’s what you think. Both my daughters seem to think they know everything!”

  Auntie Go stood up and walked over to Mah-mee, taking the telegram from her, then folding it neatly along its creases. “You can’t dictate fate, Kum Ling. Whether you agree with them or not, everyone has their own life to live.”

  “You can agree all you want, Go,” Mah-mee snapped. “Owning your own business doesn’t give you authority over my daughters!”

  Then Mah-mee turned and walked out of the living room, her heels clapping against the wood floor. Her bedroom door whined open, then slammed behind her.

  That night Joan soaked in a hot bath until her pale skin turned pink from the heat. The water covered her breasts and leveled just under her chin. She allowed her body to float upward—her toes, a patch of dark hair,
her nipples rising to the surface.

  “Moi-moi’s a married woman now. A wife…” Joan said the word aloud, getting used to the taste of it in her mouth. Other words followed, ones that lay heavy on her tongue…“single, spinster, old maid.” They felt muffled, softer in the thick fog of the steam-filled bathroom.

  “Single, spinster, old maid!” Joan said louder, laughing to herself. At thirty-three, she refused to accept titles that sounded like children’s games.

  Joan floated in the warm water. She still thought about Edward Chung, who had returned to Shanghai two years ago. Rumors circulated that he was trying to revive the Shanghai film industry to its former glory, but was having difficulties with the Communist government. Joan placed her hand on her flat stomach, wondering how her life might have been if she’d had the child. It wasn’t until several weeks after they’d finished shooting A Woman’s Story that she even realized she was pregnant. Joan had panicked, then felt nauseated every morning, and tried to hide it from Mah-mee and Foon. She wanted to tell Auntie Go, but decided to put her trust in Jade Wind.

  “What do I do?” Joan asked, closing the door to her dressing room.

  “How far along are you?” Jade Wind asked.

  Joan shook her head. “I’m not sure. The month of filming and then three weeks afterward. Close to two months.”

  Jade Wind paced back and forth, then stopped abruptly. “I can find out where to go to get rid of it. Several of the actresses here have had it done. And they’re fine….” Her voice trailed off.

  Joan leaned against the door, beginning to feel sick again. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “I can’t.”

  Two days later Joan woke up with a terrible cramping. By the time she made it to the bathroom, the problem had solved itself. But time and again since then, she had felt the soft pull of life that had been inside her.